Feel Beautiful
by Mariani
Summary: While Kenny goes his entire life being told that he's beautiful, he notices that the equally-attractive Eric Cartman doesn't get nearly the same amount of attention. And it's secretly killing him. Kenny/Cartman.


**Feel Beautiful – Keneric**

(I know, okay? I'm writing way too much Keneric! But…I can't help it. :S)

**Kenny**

I was five the first time I heard it. The word – and all those like it – became my addiction. For years, I strived to hear it. I longed to be referred to as it. I craved it. It was like a dose of heroine that even actual smack (I experimented with it for a while in the eighth grade) couldn't compare to. It was attention.

It was "beautiful."

That's it. A golden arrow through the heart. Until high school, nothing could compare. Kenny, you're beautiful. Pretty. Handsome. Gorgeous. Hot. Call me what you will. Feed me.

Going back to that day, five year old Kenny McCormick was seated on a stool in the bathroom, dressed down in a hunter orange parka. The hood was up and the drawstrings tightly drawn. I caught a glimpse of my embalmed self in the grimy mirror and poked my tongue out between the bottom slats of my hood. The small, orange-shrouded child painted across the glass released a muffled giggle.

"Kenny?" my mother drawled from the hallway. She opened the door. I faced her. Sober, she appeared human. Back then, her hair was clean and I was able to distinguish the color of her eyes: blue, like mine. In three weeks, though, she'd be drinking again, my father in two. They'd managed to quit when Mom got pregnant with me. I can't remember half the time they were clean, anyways.

Mom grew a frown. "Kenny," she scolded, wagging a finger at me. She stepped in and shut the door behind her. "I can't brush your hair if you have your hood up."

I widened my eyes in surprise. Take my hood down? But, for as long as I'd remembered, it had covered my head. I couldn't imagine what a terrifying beast I would be without it.

"But, Mommy –" I began to protest.

"I can't understand you," she cut me short. "Here. Just let me take it off…"

"No, Mommy!" I whined, though I doubted she could discern what I was saying.

She reached for me and that started the flailing. She was taller and stronger, and pinned me against the stool while I kicked and shouted. "Stop wiggling!" she ordered.

"No, no, no!" I chanted.

"Stop being such a baby!" she snapped.

"No!" With one final, indignant shove, I sat on her hands and wept into mine. I was terrified of seeing myself. I'd been exposed to so many of Kevin's horror movies that I'd begun to believe that _I_ looked like Chucky from _Child's Play_ or Freddie from _Nightmare on Elm Street_. There was only one mirror in the house, and, seated right in front of it, the pressure was too great.

Mom faltered. "Kenny?" she said, softer and kinder. "Sweetie…did I hurt you?"

"No. I don't wanna take it off," I huffed, crossing my arms and pouting childishly.

She sighed. "Just let me comb your hair."

I shook my head, lower lip jutting out meanly.

"Kenny…" She caressed my shoulder. I pushed her hand away and glared at the wall. "Two minutes."

"No."

"Please?"

I didn't answer. Toddler rebellion was a frustrating thing, but, somehow, she managed to keep her cool. "How about…?" Mom touched a finger to her chin thoughtfully. "If I buy you a Kit Kat after school?"

My ears perked at the sound of my favorite candy bar. In the McCormick household, "buy" was almost never uttered. And, in my five year old mind, the prospect of chowing down on crunchy chocolate rectangles won me in an instant. "Promise?" I asked, holding out my pinky.

Mom chuckled and wrapped her larger one around mine. "Promise."

"Okay." I hopped off the stool and faced it toward the wall.

"What are you doing, baby?"

"No mirror," I said simply.

She accepted this, and drew my hood down from behind. The air in the bathroom was much colder without the lined cotton protecting my ears. I shuddered. Behind me, Mom opened a drawer. The bristles of the brush touched down to my scalp, running through the kinks. It caught a few times, and I squealed in complaint. "Sorry," Mom would say, and continue after I'd settle. After forever, she was able to get the brush through the rat's nest without any difficulty. It was strange, having something glide so easily through my hair.

Returning the brush to the counter, Mom turned me around. I ducked before the mirror's reflection reached my eyes. I couldn't see it. I couldn't see the horror that was me.

Above me, my mother chuckled. "You won't die if you look in the mirror, Kenny. I promise."

I whined under my breath. Let me put my hood back up, _please_.

"Just look," Mom insisted. "Take a look at what a beautiful boy you are."And there it was.

_What a beautiful boy you are. _How was I, a wide-eyed and innocent five year old, to resist such a pleasing invitation? Even then, the first drops of exposure had already begun to pave the road to addiction.

I sat up before fear reclaimed me.

Something stared back. A pair of cerulean discs, floating behind caramel tufts that spread into an entire weave of gold. Pristine pale skin hosted a canvas for the eyes and hair. It was a boy. And the most perfect one I had ever seen.

I wondered, briefly, what this angel was doing in my spot. His hair had recently been brushed, like mine. Perhaps his mommy had forced him to take down his hood, too – which was, strangely, identical in appearance to mine – to brush it?

I wanted to tell him to move but, a curious thing happened. When I blinked, he copied me. Wherever I swayed to, he followed not a breath behind. I parted my thin lips. So did he. It was all too clear.

_He _was _me_.

I couldn't describe me. I was nothing like the hideous monster I'd envisioned myself as. I had normal eyes, a normal face, normal teeth, normal hair. Wait. Not normal. _Amazing_ eyes. An _adorable_ face. What was the word that Mom used to describe me again…? I grasped for it.

Luckily, she read my mind:

"Oh Kenny." She sighed, toying with a stray look on my forehead. It echoed the light. "Such a beautiful boy."

**Eric**

Lucky.

I hate that word, which is ironic, considering it's the nicest one they ever had to describe me. "He's a lucky one, that Cartman boy. He's a lucky one."

But it just goes to show how well people really understand me. How is it luck when your mother is off committing adultery with half the men in town? How is it lucky when your father is dead by your own hand? How is it lucky when everyone in town hates your guts, and your only chance of survival is making them hate you even more?

Of course, "lucky" was used lightly. They preferred other words. Harsher, darker, far sharper words. Fat. Always fat. Tubby. Asshole. Dickhead. Lardass. But, of all the insults, fat was the worst of them.

Fat was a word you called someone unworthy of attention or affection. Someone hideously out of proportion, someone without hope of ever slimming down and becoming reasonable to look at. You're too fat, Cartman. You'll die early, Cartman. If I didn't sit behind you, I might see the board and learn something. All of the cookies are gone, Cartman must've been through here. It's your fault, fatass. Your fault, your fault, your fault, Cartman, wide-load, jackass.

Honestly, instead of calling me all those names, they could've just come out and said what they really meant, what I was truly feeling:

"Cartman, you ugly fuck…nobody will ever love you."

My best "luck", if you will, was my uncanny ability to hide it. Nobody would know about my one true desire – for someone in this world (my mother doesn't count) to love me. To call me "pretty" or "beautiful"…_something_.

The person who finally did, after I spent seventeen years yearning for this, surprised even me.

After all, he was someone who was never fat, always beautiful and always worthy.

My best friend.

Kenny McCormick.

**Kenny**

The day Mom called me "beautiful" for the first time ended on a sour note. The more I accepted that I was officially beautiful – on the longest car ride of my life – the more I liked it. I imagined Heaven's gates opening and angels harmonizing as I walked up the steps to my first day of kindergarten. My friends were waiting in the classroom. They smiled and waved.

I ran up to them, arms snapped wide open, and bellowed, "I'm beautiful!"

Care to guess what happened next?

My hood went up for nine years after that. To me, their laughter meant that my friends, the closest people in my life after my parents went back to hitting off the bottle, didn't agree. They didn't think I was beautiful. Which wasn't true of course, but, to me, it was painfully true. Mom never called me "beautiful" again. After that, even when she was around, we rarely spoke.

Being brought back down to Earth, it took a while to climb back onto my pedestal. My hood became a symbol of me. My insecurities. I was ashamed of my hideous face. How my friends missed that, I have no idea. No child wears a parka so tightly so that only his eyes show because he _wants _to. It wasn't the cold – like we gave a damn, anyways. It was my childish conception that they laughed…because I wasn't beautiful.

I was fourteen when I decided that enough was enough.

I went to high school hood-free for the first time in years with one thought in mind. _I _wasn't the ugly one – it was my asshole _friends_! To me, they were the groveling whores. Stares from girls and guys alike strengthened my pact through the roof. See them laugh now. See my pretty face and laugh at it. I _dare_ you.

But then, I saw _them_. And the euphoria died in my throat.

Oddly, it wasn't Stan that caught my attention. His navy blue eyes held their usual unfathomable depth, his charcoal hair dull and flat. It wasn't Kyle either, with a flame of wild red curls and vibrant emerald eyes that directly contrasted with his gloomy best friend. They looked just like they were supposed to: like Stan and Kyle.

It was Cartman who stopped me in my tracks.

If this was Eric Cartman, then my hood had truly been playing tricks with my vision. The Cartman I knew was five feet and nine inches cloaked in baby fat. His hair was hidden under that stupid turquoise knit-cap, his pants could fit five of me, and his eyes plowed into anything that moved. _This_ Cartman, however, was easily five eleven or even six feet. His fat was something harder that gave him a far more intimidating, powerful appearance. That stupid cap was gone and his neat brown hair shone under the light. His eyes were still acidic pits of amber, but I doubted that would ever change.

I stared.

Had Stan not turned then and noticed me, I might've been ensnared there forever. "Hey dudes," I greeted casually. "Kyle." I nodded to the redhead. "Stan." I nodded to the Noirette. "…_Eric_." I nodded to the brunette.

I had never called him that before.

Eric's eyes widened, losing their poison. While Kyle pointed out my hood-less-ness, Eric watched me fixedly. It took not a second more to understand why I hadn't called him "fatass" or "Cartman" or any other of his loathed nicknames.

The answer hit me like a slap in the face.

I, Kenny McCormick, thought Eric Cartman was beautiful.

**Eric**

"…_Eric_."

That was _not_ my name.

Only douchebags – and Mom – dared to call me that. It was worse than being called fat or ugly or an asshole or whatever. Definitely.

"Eric" was similar to "Kenny", in that it referred to a child who was not fat, or ugly, or an asshole. Eric referred to a boy that, at one time, had been loved. Who was…beautiful.

I was neither of those things.

Even Butters ditched on calling me "Eric." After screwing with him one too many times, he decided to join the Cartman/fatass/racist bandwagon. Let him. I didn't mind that faggot thinking of me that way. But _Kenny_? Why would he do that? Why would he think of me as an "Eric" instead of a "Cartman?" We were best friends, but what difference did that make? What gave him a fucking right to think I was something more than what people saw me as?

My favorite question of all arose around the end of tenth grade:

Did Kenny – _the_ Kenny McCormick – think I – _the _Eric Cartman – was…

…beautiful?

**Kenny**

Up until that party, it was keeping me awake at night. _Eric Cartman is beautiful_. I always found it such a shame that I was the only one who seemed to think so. All of our friends proved that with their senseless teasing. It was _sick_. There were days it was so bad that I had to suppress the screams: _Can't you see what you're doing to him? Look, assholes! Look at the _real_ Eric, or Cartman, or whatever the fuck you call him! Look past the outside! _Look!

They never did.

I'm glad. If they had, they might've fallen for him harder than I did. Stan developed into a bigger player than me; it was always a constant fear for me that he'd catch a glance of Eric's breathtaking reflection and make shit happen.

For me, high school was difficult. Keeping my grades up, as well as my secret man-crush on Eric inside, was draining me. Worst yet, I relieved myself with sin: sex. Faceless sex. It never meant a thing. The girls asked I call them, the boys asked I never tell. I did neither.

Eric must've thought differently, though. It was so obvious that he wished I'd crawl into a hole and die. Before, he'd joke around, hug me occasionally. Now, he cringed whenever I stood within ten feet of him. I wonder what would've happened if I'd gained enough courage to reach over and grab his hand.

I'd find myself in a grave. Again.

Thinking this strongly of a boy so vile was confusing. Here was a child who'd personally masticated the body of his own father into chili, who'd conned and screwed all of us over infinitely, who lived to bring everyone down. And, despite it all, despite his effort to get me the fuck away from him, I never surrendered. You know what they say: love chooses you. Damn straight.

Eric confused me, too. Did he intentionally act like such a dick? Or was it defensive? Was it – God forbid – possible that, given the right treatment, he had a good side deep within?

Ugh. Too many questions.

I had no idea. I guess people who fall for the stunning likeness of evil are a little fucked up themselves.

**Eric**

By junior year, I hated him.

All of the roads he led me on, all of the signals he gave me – demolished. I vowed to never be that foolish and cave into his charms again. Save your games for the horny freshman girls, Ken. I'm not interested. I fucking hate you, understand?

I wouldn't call it hate, though. More of jealousy. Pathetic, right? He was a poor piece of shit, a disgusting blond leech, and I _envied_ him. But it was impossible not to envy a beautiful person. He popped cherries and spread the tears of ex-virgins like it was nobody's business. He surpassed me on the scale of selfishness. Regardless of who got in the way, _he_ always had to come first. For Kenny McCormick, life was served, not earned. He could've had a third nipple and kids would pay him to take his shirt off.

And me? Well. That part was easy.

Fat.

Flabby.

Failure.

Asshole.

Eric Cartman.

Until the party, that was my life. Ugly and unloved.

**Kenny**

I knew what Eric thought of me. And, after a while, I knew what I thought of him. For him, it was hate. For me…it was love.

Eric had graduated from "beautiful." He was…unearthly. Transcendent. Everything and everyone wavered in his presence, whether they were aware of it or not. Amazingly, he was somehow able to grow even more handsome with age. By senior year, he was godlike. It was hard to look at him and not end up slack-jawed staring.

Here's the thing about secrets: nobody ever tells you what they can do to you. Nowhere is it written that keeping secrets can eat you alive and drive you to unwillingly become the whore that everyone expected you to be. And I certainly don't recall anyone telling me that secrets can make your beautiful best friend hate your guts, and not in the good way, either.

Partway through senior year, Craig or Clyde (it was Stan, I think) told me about a party.

It was destined to be like any other: pot, music, beer, orgies, and me screwing God knew who. But it was the party that changed my life. So many things happened…things that I had spent years creating scenarios for. Oddly, though, I can't remember much. Like who was hosting it. I can't remember what I saw or who I saw with whom. I can't remember if I was drunk or just plain out of it. All I remember is Eric's face when I told him.

He was standing by the keg when I walked up to him. He had his back turned to me. I was planning on getting a drink. These parts are clear. However, something – secondhand marijuana smoke, maybe – had driven me to grab Eric's broad shoulder, five inches above my arm. That twisted something drove me to spin him around, seize the lapel of his jacket, and yell right into his face, "_Why?_"

Four years of falling in love with this boy…and the first word I could think of saying was "why." Huh.

"Why what?" he asked uncomfortably.

"You hate me!" No shit. I wonder why, McCormick. "And I want to know why!"

"I think you know why."

"No." That was the truth.

He cocked his head. "Are you drunk?"

"_Answer me. Why do you hate me?_" I shook him. Hard.

"Ow!" he grumbled, daring to meet my eye. I faltered a bit. A glimpse of those twin suns was all it took to weaken my knees. I was suddenly very, very afraid. "Let go of me, you poor fuck!"

"Make me…by answering," I managed.

"Oh, fine." He exhaled, like this conversation was tiring and redundant. "I hate you, Kenny, because you're a poverty-stricken asshole who gets whatever the hell he wants whenever he wants."

"That's not hate, fuckwad," I snarled. "That's called 'jealousy.'"

He reddened. "I answered. Now let me down."

I let him down. But I did not release his shirt. I instead held him against the keg in a burst of strength and courage. Eric yelled. "The fuck? You said you'd let me down!"

"You're down." I smiled sadistically, then smashed my mouth onto his.

**Eric**

For the record, I am _never_ taken off guard. That, however, was changed that night. Kenny confronting me so violently was a little unexpected. My honest answer surprised us both, I think. But the kiss?

Shit. Did the Earth stop spinning?

**Kenny**

Eric resisted.

"Get…" The voice tore away, gasping. "_Get off!_"

I was roughly shoved backwards. Discouraged, yes, but not defeated. I got him before he slipped out. He might've been The Hulk now, but I was The Flash.

"Kenny!" Eric twisted. "I swear, I'll fucking sue you for every –!"

I used my hand this time, silencing his gorgeous lips. "Shut up," I hissed. He stared at me in disbelief, but didn't fight anymore. So I took a breath. I took everything I had and dangled it on a cord between us:

"I love you."

**Eric**

Caught off guard?

How about shot in the heart?

_I love you._

I love you?

Nobody loves me! Shut the fuck up, Kenny!

"No," I croaked.

Kenny stuck his neck out like he meant it. Sapphires were smoldering me.

"No you don't, Kenny." Yes, that disgusting child had a name.

"I do. Is that so hard to believe?"

_Yes! Yes it fucking is!_

"I hate you." If only I believed that.

"Do you?"

No. "Yes."

"Okay." Kenny smiled. I don't know why. In that moment, I couldn't figure him out. "Then I hate you, too. If that's what we'll call it."

What we'll _call_ it? That's what it _is_, you dumb shit!

No!

Don't you _dare_ kiss me again, fag!

"I will _not_ improvise our 'love' with the word 'hate.' Because that's what has been happening my entire life. It's always, 'Cartman you're fat.' Why can't you ever just say what you mean? Tell me. Tell me that I'm worthless and ugly and horrible. Go on! Say it! I know it's true! I'm tired of the lies!"

I had no idea that I'd spoken the last bit out loud.

**Kenny**

As soon as I heard those words from Eric, I knew it. I knew right then that, trapped beneath his tough outer appearance, was a hurt, tormented boy that had been suffering his whole life. My mother had called me beautiful once, while girls spent years labeling me off in a similar manner. But Eric wasn't like me. He had never been called beautiful, or pretty, or significant, or valued at two shits. And it was killing him.

He especially wasn't like me because, if he died, he wouldn't be coming back.

I felt like an idiot. It had been there all along. This tortured side of Eric that he'd kept out of sight. It was _right there_. And you'd think, with how much I stared at the boy, I'd have noticed?

Maybe…

Was it that he was so blindingly beautiful…I couldn't see what he really felt all along?

**Eric**

Another reason why I envied Kenny: he could keep his cool. And he did. I blurted all of my secret feelings in one seating and he wore a poker-face.

"Eric…"

_Is he talking to me?_

"You are the most beautiful, perfect, amazing person I have ever met."

Then he was hugging me, and I was hugging him. He'd somehow worked his way into my arms and commanded them to hold back.

I cried.

I've cried in public before. But not like this. This was all of the angst I'd felt. This was the pain that locked me inside of myself – the real me. The one who longed to be liked and held and loved…just as Ken was doing now. Not long after, tears fell from his eyes, too.

We cried together.

And, in that evening, jealousy-disguised-as-hate became love.

**Kenny**

I understand now. Why I love him.

I love him because he's somebody who deserves it. Somebody who's worth my love, time, and utter devotion. He's worth everything in the world.

**Eric**

Today, I am turning eighteen. And Kenny McCormick – Kenny fucking McCormick, the "hottest" kid in school since forever – is my boyfriend. _My_ boyfriend. He could've chosen anyone at all. But he chose me.

And, as he leans across me now and whispers that he loves me, I know it's true. And I whisper that I love him too. Because I do. With Kenny, I feel beautiful. It took a little convincing on his part but, in the end, I believed him. I am Eric Cartman and I am beautiful. It's my eighteenth birthday, and my boyfriend is Kenny McCormick, the best I could ever hope for.

Who knew that opposites could attract like this?


End file.
